


here comes the sun

by eshares



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Almost Kiss, Alternate Universe - College/University, Character Death, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Minor Character Death, Original Character(s), Pining, Roommates, Strangers to Lovers, Teasing, george in the hoodie, it doesn't really focus too much on that though, local florida man is stupid, musician dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:14:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29443179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eshares/pseuds/eshares
Summary: And on Valentine’s Day, George wakes up to a bouquet of roses on his bed beside him. He smiles to himself, despite everything.Beside the flowers, is a note:I have a concert today. Come to the hall at 12:00.Every single note that I play is for you.Remember that.or; george and dream live in an apartment together and simp for one another from august to february
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 100
Kudos: 494





	here comes the sun

**Author's Note:**

> uhhhhh i wrote this in two days sorry if there are mistakes
> 
> i just wanted to write something and i happen to be obsessed with dream and george so here this is

**_August_ **

George groans from his rightful place on Karl’s carpeted living room floor. He lays adjacent to the coffee table, which is littered with miscellaneous items; soda cans, video game controllers, sketches and storyboards. “I do not want to live on campus again.”

There’s gentle light coming in through the window, and it dapples the messy apartment with sunspots. George has seen many moments like this in the past year, just him and his newfound friend relaxing in the comfort of the small apartment.

“Okay? So, like… Don’t,” Karl responds from his place on the couch, looking at the TV screen, and _God, he’s so funny, isn’t he? Karl, I wish I was half as funny as you. If you keep making jokes like that, Karl, I will piss my pants laughing._

It’s a good thing that George has a filter. Karl probably wouldn’t be too happy with him if he gave that much attitude aloud.

The brunette, appearing to ignore his annoying friend’s little quip, rolls over and continues. “I would literally rather sleep in a dumpster, snuggling with rats and using layers upon layers of garbage as my blankets than stay in a dorm again.”

He zones out for a second, thinking of all the uncomfortable situations he’d been in the last couple years with his roommates in their dorm. Living together in such a small space left no real room for boundaries. It had been beyond George’s comfort zone in the worst way.

  
Karl’s voice reels him back to reality.

“..such a drama queen. Get an apartment. That’s kind of the only solution to your problem. We’ve discussed this.”

“I don’t have enough money to pay the rent for a whole apartment by myself. I’ve saved some money, but I’m not sure how far it’ll take me.”

Well, he does have enough money, technically. It would just be so much less expensive to split rent with someone else. 

He has a feeling in his gut that he can’t live on campus again this year. That he shouldn’t. George never really listens to his intuitions, he doesn’t see the point; he thinks with his head, not his heart.

But there’s a feeling inside him that whispers to him gruffly, don’t do it. Don’t go back. And for some reason, this time, he is listening.

“Dude, _wait!_ I hung out with my friend Dream yesterday and he’s looking for a roommate. He’s got an apartment off campus and from the pictures, it looks pretty nice. And he’s super cool, I bet you guys would get along.”

“How do you know him?” George asks, rolling onto his stomach and propping his chin on a pale hand. His interest is piqued.

“I’ve known him and his best friend since I was 15,” Karl says plainly. “They’ve really grown on me. A few of the only people that didn’t bully my dork ass in highschool.”

“And Dream is not a kidnapper or serial killer?”

“Why would I recommend him to you if he was? And how would I know?” The goofy brown haired boy almost looks bored. But his voice is expressive, pitched high and low with nuances and expression.

“Or a stalker?” 

“Hmm, don’t think so.” 

“A pedophile?”

“George. What?” Karl is unamused by George, as usual, but that only makes him want to keep going.

“Does he chew with his mouth open?”

“You- what? I don’t think so.”

“Is he messy?” 

“I wouldn’t know. Ask him all of these questions yourself, why don’t you? I bet you two would get along nicely,” Karl urges, gesturing to the door vaguely, as if to say, _go speak to him._

“I don’t even know him.”

“Ah, yes, that is how friendships typically go. It’s almost like we all start off as strangers-”

  
“God, shut up, Karl,” George groans, throwing a pillow in his general direction and missing miserably. “How can I meet this guy?”

“This guy’s name is Dream. Do you have anything to do on Friday?”

“Let me think,” George says, over exaggeratedly pondering his nonexistent Friday plans. Not even a second later, he looks at Karl with a cocked eyebrow and says dryly, “No, I don’t.”

“Meet him at Carmine’s then. He’s pretty much always there.”

George looks at the ceiling, counting the tiles above them and the white ceiling lights.

“Alright. Maybe I’ll pop over, just to meet him.”

  
“You’re gonna love him," Karl assures, smiling to himself in satisfaction.

Sure I will, he thinks.

“Whatever you say, Karl.”

_Whatever_ , George thinks.

Whatever. A word that screams apathy, that implies meaninglessness. It’s ironic, because it was that very word that marked the beginning of a relationship that would come to mean everything.

It’s two days later and George stands in the blazing Florida light, the scorching sun warming his pale English skin. The streets are bustling with people; teenagers skating and laughing with one another, adults sitting outside at restaurants for dinner. The brunette feels like his senses are overloading, with all of the vibrant pictures and sounds around him; they form a beautiful dizzying storm of perpetual social interaction. 

Above him is a sign, black with swirly white lettering; Carmine’s. He’s never been here himself, but he’s heard good things about it; classical music, tasty food, a good atmosphere with kind staff. He stands in front of the door, which is decorated by a sign with final and resounding block letters: Closed. 

George expresses this to Karl with a text message, who tells him to just go in. He stands still and ponders for a moment, and decides that if asked, he’ll just say he didn’t see the sign and apologize. 

The door opens with a creak and a miniscule, small chiming noise. He looks up to observe the golden bells hanging from it. There’s a welcome sign on the wall in front of him, a velvety red carpet below his feet. 

A vivacious melody fills the space, pleasant sounds streaming from the piano across the room, highlighted by lengthy modern windows. The place is relatively small, but it makes George feel warm and comfortable. Everything is made of dark, rich woods; a striking and rich mahogany that contrasts with the natural sunlight that floods the cozy cafe.

George turns the corner fully, the entire cafe now in his sights.

“Hello?” he calls. 

For a second it’s just him and his soft, posh voice, settling into the silence that quickly arises. He’s so busy admiring the decor, the lighting, the tall windows to the left of the doorway he stands in, the simplistic beauty of it all- that he doesn’t even notice the stranger, sitting on the stool adjacent to the piano. 

The silence is interrupted.

“Hello,” a deep, mellow voice returns kindly. George’s eyes meet a pair of clean white and black sneakers and his gaze moves up, and up, and up, to the stranger’s face. 

And then they see each other clearly for the first time, gleaming in sunlight, figures soaked and dripping with summer and the month of August. 

They’re untouched by the currents of time, in the moment where George’s eyes search the newcomer’s own, emerald meeting honey brown in the daylight. The beauty of that one second is timeless.

The man- _Dream-_ turns around fully, wiping his hands on his pants.

And time resumes.

“It’s nice to meet you,” George continues, crossing the room in several long strides and tilting his head up somewhat uncomfortably to look at the stranger. It feels strange and unfamiliar to him, being the one to close the distance. He reaches out with a hand. “George.”

“Dream, ” the blonde haired dope greets, shaking George’s hand gently and smiling crookedly with almost a little too much teeth. Warm hands. His canines are noticeably sharp; his features are jagged edges, where George’s are all soft and curved. “I wish I could say I’ve heard so much about you, but the first time I heard of your existence was, like, yesterday.” George snorts at this.

“Same here. Was that you playing the piano when I walked in?”

Dream gestures openly to the empty room with a long arm.

“No, it was the other guy.”

“I was just asking.”

“Did you like it?” he asks, and he sounds very genuine. 

“Hated every second,” George muses, crossing his arms. Dream almost looks hurt. “I’m joking. Your playing was very pretty.”

It’s not like George to give out compliments so freely. _Very pretty?_ He thinks he might be flushing. 

But the embarrassment is okay, because the blonde boy gives a small smile. From this angle, George notices his long, muddy eyelashes. A new scent fills his senses; Dream smells like pine trees, and it reminds him of fresh air on a camping trip.

“Thank you,” he returns, voice smooth and laced with gratitude. “Karl didn’t tell me you’re British.”

“Yeah, my accent has changed a lot since I’ve been living in America. But I’m from Brighton.” Dream leads the brunette over to a dusty table, and George pointedly ignores the way that the taller man pulls out a chair for him, because who even does that anymore? He also pointedly ignores how much he likes it. “Have you ever been to Europe?”

“I’ve been to London, actually, but I was too young to actually remember anything about it,” Dream says, absently tapping his fingers on the table and bouncing his leg. “Why’d you move here?”

Potential responses flicker across his train of thought, and each sounds more vulnerable and trusting than the last.

George settles for, “Just needed a change of scenery.” 

He thinks of the grey and ambiguous clouds of London, the bitter cold biting at his skin. Clay studies George’s face, dark and soft green eyes searching his own, and then his thoughts liquify then blend into fluorescent Florida skies and temperate water.

They’re from two different worlds.

“I get that. I’ve lived in Florida all my life.”

There’s a faint sound of Dream’s foot bouncing on the floor in monotonous rhythm. 

“Do you want to live here forever?”

The real question George is asking: do you find comfort in the same familiarity that sickened me, when I was living across the ocean? Do you find comfort in the same sentimental attachments which coerced me to flee everything I’d ever known?

“Oh, definitely,” Dream responds with certainty, his voice full of the warmth and affection of his birthplace. “I’d love to travel at some point, but I feel like I belong here. Florida’s my home. Always has been, always will be.”

It makes sense to George, as much as he hates to admit it. Dream’s hair is that of the sand, and the swirling colors of his eyes mimic the ocean when it’s under the blazing influence of sunlight. Freckles are sprinkled to trail across his cheekbones, overlaying a light sunburn, pink and raw. He looks like the sun itself.

Even though it makes sense to him, there’s still a split second where George wants to ask, how does anyone know where they really belong- how does anyone know where home is- when the world is so big and there’s so much left to see? 

He wants to ask, but doesn’t know how. Can’t find the words, maybe. 

“What about you, George? Are you going to settle here?”

I couldn’t tell you, he wants to say. My guess is as good as yours. I wish someone else could make the decision for me.

“I’m not sure that I will,” George replies with honesty. “It depends. If I find something worth staying for, then yes.”

Life passes so fast, Dream. Doesn’t it make you anxious that you’re experiencing it from one place, and one place only?

The sunkissed boy raises an eyebrow, leaning back in his seat. His long fingers thrum on the table; they’re perfect for the piano, the instrument he’d been sitting at among George’s greetings. Made for it, even.

  
They change topics.

“What are you studying?” Dream asks.

“I’m double majoring in computer science and statistics.”

“What are you, a masochist?” George smiles lazily at the other man’s response. “Statistics! Seriously _?”_

“No, I’m not a masochist, thank you very much. And yes, seriously. I’ve been into coding since I was 16 or 17, and any kind of mathematics complements a computer science degree rather nicely, does it not?”

“Well, yeah. All I’m saying is that it sounds like you’re paying thousands of dollars for cruel and unusual punishment.”

“You’re a pain.” George says, raising his eyebrows. He doesn’t mean it at all. “To each their own. To me, it sounds less like cruel and unusual punishment and more like a fun challenge.”

Dream mutters, with his stupid grin again, “It sounds like you’re crazy. Statistics is only soul-crushingly boring.” 

George stands up from his chair to lean over and smacks him on his stupidly blonde head. Dream rubs the sore spot and frowns.

“Let me guess. You’re a communications major?” George thinks he’ll get it on the first try. 

“Nope.”

He is wrong.

“Business?”

Dream is smiling.

  
“No.”

“You’re lying.”

He laughs to himself, a deep rumbling sound. “English major, minor in computer science.” 

“You’re majoring in the study of your native language?” George is joking, and he hopes the other man understands this.

Of course, he doesn’t.

“Oh, come on now,” Dream says, half-heartedly kicking the brunette under the table. Then, sounding resigned, he finishes, “Yes I am.”

He’s definitely been chastised before for this very subject many times before. Dream has physically deflated like a balloon void of air, like a wilted flower. George assumes that his parents do not support his choices. 

“Are you a writer?” George asks.

He looks up, and the look that crosses his face is of childlike hope. Hope that George will approve.

“I’m trying to be.” 

“You said you’re a computer science minor. I’m assuming that means that you needed a more realistic option in case your creative career doesn’t go as planned. _”_

Dream’s lips form a thin line. His cupid’s bow is a nice shape.

“I hate that you’re right,” and George laughs a little, finding himself satisfied. “I’m genuinely interested in technology and stuff, though.”

And stuff.

“It makes sense. It’s a smart decision, going for what you love, but doing so with a backup plan.” 

Dream’s face lights up again, back straightening and eyes ablaze.

“That’s what I’m saying! I love to write and read, always have, ever since I was a kid. Stories were my escape, both creating and reading them,” George nods, tilting his head and observing the way that Dream speaks almost recklessly. The words seem to spill from his mouth. “I know even if I’m not a successful writer, and even if I don’t land a job in that field, I won’t regret spending the money taking these classes. Language and writing have always been a creative outlet for me to express myself, and I know I’ll enjoy the time I spend learning about all of it.”

A smile is slowly forming on George’s face, and he doesn’t even realize it is, as Dream continues talking rapidly. 

  
“And I already have basic tech certifications, not to mention that I took an AP computer class in highschool and every technology elective that there was _._ After college, I’ll be more than qualified for a job in the tech industry. And _,_ on top of that, I can keep pursuing music as well, playing piano gigs here and accompanying the orchestra on campus. I’m sorry, I’m rambling. This... usually doesn’t happen with people I just met.”

“No worries,” I don’t mind listening to you talk. And that’s weird, because normally I’m irrationally frustrated when reminded of the fact that I coexist with billions of other people, George wants to say. Alas, he does not. “No need to apologize, you’re fun to listen to. You really seem like you have your life figured out, huh?”

It’s almost intimidating and somewhat suffocating, to sit across from a person who seems to hold so much potential. Anyone who stood next to Dream would pale in comparison to his flashy grins and bright, tousled hair; George thinks that anyone with eyes would agree with him. 

“It’s more like.. I’ve charted different paths that I can take. Still don’t know the right one to take.”

“That’s okay,” George shrugs. “We’ve got plenty of time. Did you say you play gigs here?”

“Yeah, I do. I work here serving food, and I play music for the guests,” Dream readjusts in his seat, glancing over at the sleek, black instrument. “I know this place doesn’t look like much right now, all empty and stuff, but you should see it when it’s full of people. It’s really something.”

All empty, and stuff.

Dream speaks very informally for someone who’s making a first impression. It’s as if he doesn’t care what leaves his mouth; he doesn’t care as much about the words, he cares more about what they mean. Cares more about the point he’s trying to make.

“Actually, I quite like it. It’s beautiful,” George agrees, looking around again. They sit adjacent to the large windows, seated in wooden chairs. “It’s easy to see why it’s so popular. And, uh- how exactly are we here right now?”

Dream smiles. “My mom owns it, so I have a key.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Dead serious.”

“So then, do you get paid for playing, or is it just a favor to your mum?”

“No, I don’t get paid directly, but the guests leave tips sometimes. I don’t really do it for the money anyways, it’s just for fun. What about you, where do you work?”

“I used to work at the crummy computer repair down the block, but now I work at the bookstore,” George states, grinning when Dream’s face lights up and shines even brighter.

“If you’re my roommate, could you get me books for free?” Dream asks, sounding genuine.

“Why would I do that?”

“It’d make me happy.” And there's not a hint of a joke in his voice.

George wants to roll his eyes, but he can’t.

“I’d get fired, nimrod.” 

Dream presses his lips together.

“Fine. We’ll talk about this more another day.”

  
 _Another day,_ he says, and George imagines him standing on the edge of a precipice and screaming it to the open horizon. _Another day,_ he’d holler, and it would be a shout into the uncertain abyss that is the future.

“It’s bold of you to assume there will be another day.”

“Well, am I wrong?” Dream asks, testing him.

“When did I become the one with the power? You’re the one with the apartment.” 

“Oh yeah! I forgot, ” Dream beams. He’s like a child. George keeps a straight face, tilting his head at the musician. 

Silence falls. Dream’s eyes are drifting from George’s face, traveling elsewhere; they seem to fall upon his collarbones. 

“Okay, so you’re a masochistic tech nerd from Brighton who works at a bookstore. That’s about all I know about you.” 

“Yes.”

“Will you tell me more?” He sounds eager. And yet beneath the words, there is also a comforting patience. 

“Eventually.”

Dream’s words, _another day,_ and George’s, _eventually,_ stand together with their implications, holding each other's hands. There’s a silent understanding, here. 

“Are you being this cryptic on purpose?” Dream asks.

“Maybe,” and there’s that smile again, crooked and sharp and wide and unapologetic and breathtakingly imperfect.

“Will you live with me?”

How have I earned his trust enough already, when I have said so little, George asks himself.

He is dimly reminded of the feeling that brought him here in the first place, the invisible string that tugged at him. The decisions he made, sensical and nonsensical, that led him here to this very moment.

“I could be a serial killer, for all you know.”

“Karl Jacobs would never befriend a serial killer, even on accident. Anyone with a malicious intention would take one look at him and his sweaters and his big smile and feel utterly repulsed.”

“That is true.” 

“And I want a roommate. And you’re interesting. And I hate being by myself.” 

Interesting. George is not sure he’s ever been called interesting.

I hate being by myself. The words make George’s heart twinge, for a reason he can’t place; maybe it’s because Dream looks so young for a moment, the phrase rolling off his tongue softly, nose crinkling slightly as he averts his eyes. 

Regardless, George is surprised when he finds himself thinking, me too. Scared to be alone, yes- but moreso, terrified of getting close.

And George knows he hasn’t even seen the apartment, and he knows he just met this guy, but he really does _not_ want to live on campus. It’s the spontaneous and impulsive adventurer in him that says, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes. But if this turns into a college roommate horror story I tell to my grandchildren when I’m old, I’ll kill you.”

To which Dream responds, “Looks like you’ll be the death of me in one way or another.”

George’s face is warm.

“I highly dislike you.”

“Sure you do, George. Sure you do.”

Everything about this seems too good to be true, George thinks as a comfortable silence passes. He finds himself watching the other intently, eyes searching over everything that they can. His hands, his fingers, the color of his skin, his broad shoulders. And when George looks up, the boy who looks like summer, and who smiles like he’s been touched by the sun, is doing the same for him. 

What could this boy be looking at that is so interesting to him? I am me, and I am this, George thinks. And he? He is a beauty to behold.

Emerald and chocolate opal meet again. 

“Come on a drive with me.” Dream says.

It is not an order, but a suggestion, and George knows he could say no if he wanted to. And yet he does not consider doing so, even for a second. 

“Okay.”

It’s fifteen minutes later when Dream asks out of the blue, “Do you like the beach? It’s my favorite place in the world.”

George can feel that the other man is looking at him, and he returns the gaze. Dream’s golden waves are blowing around his face, one hand on the wheel and the other outside the car as he feels the wind whizzing by his fingertips. Sunset was fast approaching as they sped down the streets with the top down, humid air and cool wind cozying themselves refreshingly into the cracks and crevices of the vehicle.

“Is that where we’re going?”

“Yes.”

George nods. “Not necessarily the beach, but I love swimming. Sand’s annoying though, it gets everywhere.”

Dream shrugs. “I actually like the sand. Feels nice to lay on, it’s warm.” 

“I think you’re just optimistic.”

“Maybe,” Dream agrees, eyes on the horizon ahead. He has a nice side profile; high cheekbones, a nose that swoops softly in contrast with his sharp, angular jawline.

“Is there anything you don’t like?” 

“You.” Dream slurs with no real malice, and George punches his arm. The raven haired boy observes him quietly, his broad chest that rises and falls like the tide with his breathing, the lean and sculpted muscles of his arms and chest.

“Why are we going to the beach?”

“I’m taking you to one of my favorite spots,” Dream says, looking over at him. “You said you’ll stay in Florida if you find something worth staying for. I see that as a challenge.”

“Good luck with that.”

“I don’t need luck,” he says with brazen confidence.

“If you’re so sure.”

Dream looks at the pale boy next to him and smiles as if he already knows he’s won. It’s a buoyant and toothy smile that’s almost too big for his face. So charming that it’s maddening. 

“I am.”

**_September_ **

“This is the last one,” George says, dropping a box at his feet. 

They’re officially moving into their apartment on this blue skied, quiet September day, the start of classes looming over their heads. The building is very nice, appearing as a large house with three stories; their living space is on the highest floor, with a balcony.

“Alright.” Dream stands next to George, rummaging through his pockets for his keys, mouth quirking upwards when his fingers hit cool metal. Pulling them out, he sticks the keys in the door, and it opens with a _creak._

He allows George to step inside first, gesturing for him to enter.

The floors are wooden, and the walls are a stark white. From the front door, the living room space comes first, and beyond that, the kitchen; it’s not the biggest space, but it’s cozy. And it’s also definitely roomier than George had anticipated.

From the living room stems a hallway that leads to the bathroom and their respective bedrooms. George roughly kicks a box out of his way and into Dream’s path, hoping to trip him, and begins racing down the hallway to the bedroom furthest down. The taller man is quickly behind him, agile and swift; they both want to see which bedroom is better, and claim it as their own. 

“Move. Move,” Dream says, poking George’s sides as they stumble down the hallway. It wouldn’t be taking so long, if the blonde wasn’t insistently tripping the other man the entire way down the corridor.

“Stop that, it tickles.”

“That’s the point.” Another poke at his side, and George squirms and then practically falls into the bedroom. 

He takes it in. It’s small, but it looks so cozy, and George automatically wants to relinquish himself to the dizzying feeling of comfort it inspires in him. Maybe it’s because it reminds him of his childhood bedroom in Britain, in a way. Though in that bedroom, there was barely even room to walk; in this one, it’s petite enough to be homey, but large enough for him to move around as he pleases. 

Already, George can imagine himself opening the window at night, sitting on his bed and looking up at the stars. Doing his homework and studying in the comforting atmosphere of his dimly lit bedroom.

“I call this one,” he says. Dream looks almost displeased by the room.

“Really?” 

“Yes.”

“Why? This is the smaller one.”

“I don’t know. I just like it, I think it’s nice.”

Despite the fact that they had raced not a minute ago to claim the better bedroom, and that Dream almost certainly wants the biggest space- maybe even requires it- the blonde still asks, “Are you sure you don’t want the other room?”  
  


“Yes.”

“Okay. I’ll help move your stuff?” 

“That would be great, thanks.”

Dream leads the way back to the front door, and the brunette focuses on the muscles of his back while they walk, his long legs that move with certainty; he is the picture of glowing confidence. It melts from his every pore. 

They re-enter the living room space, where their luggage is scattered around them in an ocean full with relics of their past memories. The window is long, and south facing; there’s barely a need for lights in the main room, the sun alone is enough. A leather couch lays adjacent to the window, a coffee table in front of that. 

For the 20 minutes they spend distributing all of their luggage to their respective rooms, they’re in comfortable silence; aside from the wheezy laugh of Dream, as he tickles and teases the brunette relentlessly. The sun is high in the sky, and George watches as the light catches those green eyes for a moment; the colors contrast beautifully with the perpetual sunburn on his cheeks, and the eyebags that are never really gone. Time seems to slow for one second, and he feels as though his breathing halts momentarily. Just as it had, when he’d first laid his eyes on the golden hearted optimist with tousled sandy hair that glows in the light.

“We should probably write up a roommate agreement,” George suggests. 

“Why?” Dream’s question is honest.

“I don’t know. Isn’t it wise to have one?” 

“What is the need? We’re splitting the utility and rental fees, simple enough, right?” And he does not sound forceful, or aggravated; he is gentle and patient, as usual.

“It is simple, but I think there is more to be discussed.”

“Like what?”

“Cleaning, food, guests. Things like that.”

“We’ll just clean our respective areas.”

“Of course.” George agrees. They sit on the sofa, in the sun; the brunette’s back is against the arm of the couch, his legs stretched out in front of him. His toes almost poke Dream’s thigh where he sits comfortably at the other end. 

It’s just them, sitting in their apartment that’s barely furnished; and somehow, the space feels so full.

“As for food, we’ll just write up a grocery list every week. You write down whatever you want, I’ll buy it.” The golden boy’s voice is quiet, and his eyes swirl with genuine willingness.

“I don’t want you to pay for my food,” George scoffs, shaking his head at the other man.

“Why not?” Dream settles his hand on the pale boy’s ankle, fingers spreading out. It’s warm, and the feeling makes George want to run as far as he can. But he does not; the sensation is too nice for him to leave it.

“That money will add up quickly.”

“So what? I want to spend it on you.” 

The comment makes George flush, even though it’s silly. He’s never blushed so much in his life; he had no idea just how prone he was to doing so, until he met the jack of all trades that sat across from him, with his sunburnt skin and pretty hair. “I think we should switch off each week, paying for the groceries.” 

“Okay, sure. That sounds good to me.”

“What about parties?” George asks.

“Do you want us to hold parties here?”

  
George hates the idea of so many people in their apartment; it feels like letting them into an important part of his life that he clutches closely to his chest. 

“I don’t know.” Is there even space for that, really?

“You do know,” Dream accuses, and how could he tell? George has always considered himself to be difficult to read, and he thinks that is his greatest weapon. How does Dream disarm him like this?

“Okay. No, I don’t want us to.”

“Me neither.”

“And… Guests.”

“Guests?” Dream asks, and he really doesn’t understand. Maybe he does, and he just wants to hear George say it.

“It’s-- overnight. Guests,” he’s stuttering, and he isn’t exactly sure why. “I don’t know if you have a girlfriend, or something.”

He thinks of Dream sleeping with someone else in the room just down the hall, of someone else touching him, observing him in the way that the pale boy does so freely. Of someone else wrapping their arms around him, and laying their head on his chest, close to his heartbeat. George’s stomach churns at the thought, and he finds himself shifting in discomfort. 

“I don’t have a girlfriend.” Dream says.

“Me neither, and I never will,” and the brunette doesn’t know why he says it. 

But it leaves his lips, and George thinks he almost sounds confident, despite that he begins to panic over the potential responses to his words. He doesn’t know how Dream feels about such things. 

George dares to look up from the floor next to him, face flushed, and the other man is looking at him with that smile, eyes full with something that looks like lenient admiration. 

And all he says is, “Cool.” But Dream’s eyes and facial expression do most of the talking, as per usual. George has never seen him so void of words before. 

“So… Overnight guests?”

  
“Not allowed,” the blonde man says, and it sounds final. He glows extra bright, in that moment; shiny and glamorous and gorgeous. George’s heart warms, and the heat travels to his cheeks. He’s not sure his face has ever been this warm before; pressing his hand to his cheek, he enjoys feeling it radiating from his skin. “I- sorry. I don’t want to step on your toes, I don’t know why I just-”

“Not allowed,” George agrees, cutting off the other man. “Friends can stay over, though?”

Dream is normally sweet yet jagged smiles, gentle and playful touches, and here he is; serious as can be, jaw set. 

George is not sure what any of this means.

“Oh, sure. That’s fine,” Dream says, and the tension falls from his broad shoulders, his face relaxing.

“Okay.” 

That night, George lays in his bed alone, looking at the ceiling. It’s very late- close to midnight, he figures- when he begins to hear the tentative striking of piano keys.

The sound is quiet and distant; it’s sweet. Somehow it sounds so innocent, and pure. Normally, he thinks that he would be disturbed by the noise so late at night. Maybe, he would even go in and yell, and tell the person producing it, to kindly shut up. 

It’s different now, somehow. Calming. The melodious sounds of the keyboard that he knows Dream is playing mixes with the distant sounds of traffic, the whispers of the streets outside, and all of the noises together consolidate to form a unique song that is the Florida night itself. 

He listens as the song decrescendos, slowing, dwindling down to almost nothing. He can imagine Dream’s calloused, long fingers hovering on the keys; and then the song picks up again, and the phrasing is _beautiful,_ so loud and then so quiet, vigorous and then slow and sweet. 

The brunette boy with beady brown eyes swings his pale legs over the side of his bed, socked feet meeting the cold, wooden floor of his room. He grabs his pillow and creeps quietly down the hallway, stopping just before Dream’s door, which is cracked open just enough for him to be visible. 

He’s got his keyboard propped up on the windowsill, and his waist is pressed against it to keep it there; it’s just the pretty boy and his instrument, and the black abyss of the night before him that swallows the neighborhood whole.

George watches for a moment, entranced by the way that the instrument seems to be a part of the musician’s body; the way that his fingers flow across it in a continuous, sweeping, gentle movement. The way that after all those years of practice, they know exactly where to go, which key to strike to produce the right pitch. 

He watches Dream’s face, lit by the moon, barely visible in his position; sometimes, his eyebrows pinch in concentration. And then there are beautiful moments where his face goes slack, and his lips part slightly and he looks blissful, whimsical, so peaceful. He puts his soul, and every last drop of passion in his body into every moment, every tone, every phrase.

George thinks maybe it’s wrong, to watch him when he doesn’t know that the paler man is there. No, he thinks. What would be wrong is for him to exist like this, to play like this, without an audience. It is rather beautiful to know that Dream thinks he is alone.

At this moment, Dream thinks he is only playing for himself, and George knows that he is the one that gets to see him like this. This sight, this moment, is for him, and for him only, and he only he will remember it. 

When the raven haired boy feels he has observed enough, he sets his pillow on the ground in the hallway, just outside Dream’s door. He sits on top of it, tips his head back against the wall; and just listens. To the piano, to the soft breathing inside his roommate’s bedroom, so close to him. He knows he could go and sit on the blonde man’s bed and listen if he wants; that perhaps, he would even be happy to have his company. 

But for now, he is happy to sit in the hallway outside; happy to be a mere spectator. He feels as though he is orbiting around the sun, dancing around him, watching from afar. He thinks it’s beautiful.

  
George falls asleep like that; sitting on his pillow, legs stretched out to hit the other wall of the hallway, head rolling to the side and falling to rest against his shoulder.

George wakes up the next morning with a dreadful, pulsing pain in his neck, and an aching back. He thinks he’s a fool. He also thinks that it was worth it. 

If Dream noticed that the smaller boy had fallen asleep outside his bedroom door, he never mentions it.

**_October_ **

George leans against the wooden table of the bookstore, surrounded by the familiar and comforting scent of parchment and old pages. There’s been a few new customers today, outside the regulars.

There's an old woman who comes in, almost every day. George does not know her name, but he recognizes her face. Her nose is strong and shaped like the beak of an eagle. Her eyes, much like his own, are dark and beady, so much so that they almost look black. She does not always buy, but she always looks; George finds her to be good company. And yet, this woman does not come in today.

Maybe that’s why today feels off.

The pale man receives a phone call in that exact moment; he feels it vibrate dully in his back pocket. 

“Hello?” To his surprise, it is not Dream, but it’s his mother; her accent is posh, voice pitched high and girly. George has not spoken to her in a long while; he has not felt the desire to. Speaking to her makes him feel drained.

“Hello.”

“I miss you, honey. How have things been?”

“Good,” George says, and he knows he’s being dry. Maybe even a little bit rude. 

But he can not find it in himself to care; her voice triggers memories that he wants to forget forever. Memories of his parents arguing, the walls of the house soaked and wilting with their negativity; he remembers hearing them whispering angrily to one another distantly at the kitchen table. 

He remembers how he used to pray for the day, that he would hear the word ‘divorce’ fall from their lips. It never did. It should have. 

These memories are unearthed whenever she so much as inhales softly on the other end of the line.

“Good? That’s all?”

  
“I’ve been living in an apartment off campus. Classes have started, and the work is hard, and there’s certainly a lot of it. But it’s okay. I’m learning so much.” He does not say that he is learning the most about himself above anything, and that he is struggling to retain anything about statistics and computer science when his roommate exists. 

George tells her these things not because he wants to, but because he does not have the energy to argue with her. He refuses to let his mother ruin his mood from her rightful place across the ocean.

“I’m glad that you’re doing well, George. But I have something to tell you.” 

“Yes?” George asks, voice flat and unamused.

Silence for a moment.

“Your grandmother is not doing well,” she says, and her voice cracks a little. Wobbly, in the way that it only becomes when she’s very upset. 

George does not care to listen anymore, and he does not want to know what else she has to say. He hangs up the phone, shoves it in his pocket, and stares out the window.

George lets his mind go blank. He does not want to allow himself to think about this any further, doesn’t want to ask any questions. He’s known for a while that his grandmother does not have much longer; she had smoked a lot of cigarettes throughout her life, so her lungs and heart were never healthy. She had suffered a heart attack many years ago, and then another, more recently. 

The bells chime, and George knows that someone has come into the store. He does not care to see who it is; he thinks he already knows. Somehow, the golden boy always shows up when George does not want him to. When he is vulnerable. His eyes remain trained on the outside world as he stands next to the window display, vision fuzzy. Today, it is raining, and the clouds are ominous, puffy, endlessly threatening. 

“George?” the familiar deep voice asks.

“Yes?”

“Hello.” George does not respond, and silence hangs between them for a second. “Are you alright?”

And the brunette wants to say, I don’t know how to deal with this. He wants to ask how to deal with loss, which is inevitable to him in the near future. He wants a hug, maybe, but he does not know how to ask. So he doesn’t. 

Instead, he asks, “Have you ever lost someone?”

Dream draws closer, gravitating into his space, standing next to George. He leans against the windowsill, and peers at the shorter man, who’s eyes remain on the sky. “I have.”

“Are you over it?”

“I like to think that I am,” he says, always honest. His voice is thick, like syrup, close to the pale man’s ear. They’re alone in the store, and Dream is lightly hanging onto the fabric of George’s shirt where it’s bunched up at the elbow. It’s grounding. “But I’m not sure that anyone ever truly gets over losing someone. I think that you learn how to cope with it as time goes on, as you learn to be okay with what your life is like without them.”

“And you’re okay now?” he asks.

  
Dream reaches up with his index finger, landing on the other’s jaw and turning George’s gaze away from the clouds. The rain hits the window ferociously. The brunette allows him to do so, allows the touch to guide him; allows emerald and golden to meet honey glazed brown in the silence of the bookstore.

“Yes,” the blonde responds, and there is not a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “I am.”

They stand in silence for a few moments, standing close, looking at each other. George is reminded of the first time they met, where he was the one to close the distance, which he had never done before. How he had been the one to walk across the room, reach out, and shake the other man’s hand. He remembers the first time that he’d seen Dream’s face, how he’d felt overwhelmed by it’s features. 

“I’m glad,” George whispers, because it’s true. 

And he thinks that he can learn to be strong, just as Dream had. 

“Who is it?” Dream asks casually, and George thinks that normally, he would not answer this question. He rocks forward with nervousness, onto his toes, finding comfort in the swaying movement. His fingers remain on the windowsill, which Dream now sits on top of. 

“My grandmother.” He looks up at the blonde musician, trying to keep his face neutral.

“Tell me about her,” the other man responds, hands folded in his lap.

“Okay,” George says, and he pauses. Where should he start? “I was close to her when I was a kid. I remember… she always smelled like smoke, from her cigarettes. No matter how many times she’d wash her clothes, the scent was never really gone.”

Dream nods. He seems to be hanging onto every word.

  
  
“Most of my relatives favor my sister-”

“I didn’t know you have one.” 

“I do, she’s older than me. She is everything that I am not.” George says wistfully.

“She must be dreadful, then.”

George tries not to laugh, but he does. “Hush.” Dream gestures for him to continue speaking. “Most of them favor my sister, but my grandmother always loved me the most. She did not need to say it, I always knew.”

“How did you know?”

“It was just obvious. It’s hard to explain. The others loved my sister because she was loud, confident. Extroverted, I’d say.”

“I think you’re confident, in your own way.” 

“Yes, I am. But at the same time, I am a quiet person.”

“You are.” 

“I do not like to draw attention to myself.”

“Why is that a bad thing?”

George doesn’t answer this, exactly. “They assumed that I was thoughtless, because I did not speak my mind. They thought that I was too shy. They saw that as a more girlish trait, I think.”

“That’s stupid.” George smiles to himself at the comment, feeling satisfied. Thank you, he wants to say. He has grown to love Dream’s bluntness and honesty.

“It is. But, it is also true- they loved my sister because she was confident and unafraid to speak. They did not care to pay attention to me. But my grandmother was always there, by my side. Even when I was too tired to contribute anything important to a conversation, she would lay with me, tell me stories.”

“About what?” 

“She’d tell me stories about her and her husband. My favorite one was how they met, I listened to her tell it a million times. She’d tell me stories about stupid things that she did in college with her friends. She’d talk to me about places she traveled. Or, she’d tell me made up stories.”

“How did she meet her husband?”

“Highschool dance,” George says, and the nostalgia and joy that comes with remembering it bubbles up inside him. The blonde is watching him intently, and he feels almost embarrassed under the intensity of his gaze. “My grandmother had transferred to a new school, and her first day there, she went to the fall dance. She was 15 years old. The rest of the girls were in flowy dresses, all dolled up with their makeup and hair done. But Nan’s family was not one of wealth, and even if they had been, my grandmother did not care for such things; she showed up in her favorite pair of jeans and a t-shirt.” 

“That’s so cool.”

“Isn’t it?” George is proud. He feels more talkative, now. “Nobody would speak to her that day. My Nan tried to make friends, but the girls would not so much as glance in her direction.”

Dream frowns and says with disapproval, “Teenagers.”

“I know,” George says, and he wants to roll his eyes at the thought of kids in his school when he was 15. “Meanwhile, every girl at that school wanted my grandfather. He was attractive, talented, athletic, confident.” George thinks to himself that Dream is the same way, surprising himself. He stops for a second.

“And?”

“The slow song came on, and all the girls hung around him, in their pretty, expensive dresses. Hoping that maybe, he would ask them to dance. He walked right by all of them. Saw right through every single one of them, as if they weren’t even there. And he approached my grandmother, in her jeans and her beaten sneakers, and asked her to dance instead.”

Dream’s smile is so beautiful; wide and slightly crooked, with his pretty white teeth. The shorter man feels a surge of power, knows that he induced it. It makes him want to talk for ages, and never stop. He has never felt that before. 

Normally, he is a wallflower, sitting quietly in a dark corner. Dream has guided him into the open sunlight, for the world to see and admire. 

“Really?”

“My grandmother thought he was joking, mocking her,” George says, shaking his head. “She told him to piss off.”

“No way.”

“Yes way,” he replies, and George is smiling softly now. “And he chased her for so long, after that. Running after her in the hallways, offering her help if she needed it, finding any little excuse to speak with her. They started dating when they were 17, married when they were 19. And they’ve been married for 70 years, now.”

Dream’s eyes are fond, looking down at the brunette. 

“I hope I find something like that,” Dream says, and his voice is small. 

The rain has stopped.

George looks up, and his heart stutters; the sunlight is filtering through Dream’s wavy hair, weaved into strands from gold. He looks like an angel. 

George has never wanted that before. Never wanted to be with someone, forever, until his last day. He has adamantly not wanted that. 

Even still, he finds himself whispering, “Me too.” 

And he knows deep down that the words are for Dream, and him only.

“Thank you for telling me this.” 

George wants to say, no. Thank you for asking. I feel a little better, now. Thank you for guiding me into the sun.

Instead, he just smiles, offering the other his hand, who takes it graciously and hops down from the windowsill. 

George pretends to be unaffected when Dream looks at him like that, and pretends again when the blonde’s thumb traces over the cold skin on the back of his hand. It is a silent reassurance. It is wonderful.

**_November_ **

George wakes up in Dream’s bed, drooling all over the worksheets he had fallen asleep on top of the night before. He’s laying on his stomach, feet dangling off the bed, and he thinks that this is probably the most uncomfortable position he’s ever fallen asleep in. 

Last night, George had come into Dream’s room and asked to do his homework in here, as he so often does. Most of the time, it’s a wordless thing; George will knock, open the door, and settle down on the bed next to his roommate.

He doesn’t like to be alone while he does his work, it makes him feel more lonely than usual, for some reason. Maybe it’s just because he knows that Dream is down the hallway, one door down, and why should George stay away from him if he doesn’t have to?

Sometimes, they’ll talk for hours, but yesterday was one of the days where neither of them had much to say. He guesses that he’d dozed off at some point, and that the other didn’t want to wake him up. He feels embarrassed, at the thought of the blonde watching him sleep; he probably looked ridiculous, he realizes.

Taking a quick glance at himself in the other man’s mirror, George groans; there’s a pink mark on his cheek from where he laid on it, and his hair is sticking up unnaturally in every direction. He’s in his pajamas; loose shorts and a hoodie that swallows him whole. 

Dragging his feet, he lugs himself into the hallway, through the living room and into the kitchen, where Dream is hovering near the stove.

That’s never a good thing. 

“ _Happy birthday, George!”_ The blonde boy yells, throwing his arms up in the air; as he does so, the spatula in his left hand flings liquidy pancake batter onto the ceiling. He looks ridiculous, wearing an apron over his pajamas.

“Aren’t aprons for people who can actually cook?” George teases, and he’s trying so hard not to smile.

“You’re looking at the best chef in the state,” he exclaims, winking, and it’s so effortlessly charming it makes George ache. He’s got batter on his cheek, and he smells like sugar and pastry flour, sickeningly sweet. 

“You’ve got something,” George says, and he swipes his thumb across the other boy’s top lip without thinking. The skin is soft there, and his cupid bow is perfectly shaped.

The shorter man licks the batter off his finger, and then goes into the fridge, looking for something to drink. He’s blissfully unaware of how his roommate freezes in his spot and chokes on air.

“No way! Sit down,” Dream orders, and the smile in his voice is audible. “I’m serving you this morning. I was supposed to bring you breakfast in bed, actually, but you’re too much of a light sleeper.”

“Am I really that much of a light sleeper? Or are you naturally just so loud, that nobody can sleep whenever you’re awake?”

“Perhaps you’re right,” he responds, flicking George between the eyebrows. “You know what? I miss when you didn’t talk so much. When you’d just look at me owlishly, and say okay and yes.”

“Oh, do you now?”

“No. I really don’t.” George is smiling. The blonde continues, “I only admitted that because it’s your birthday.”

“Sure.”

A beat passes, and the shorter man already knows what’s coming next.

“George, I really hate to ask this, but-” Dream stops, sucking in a harsh breath through his gritted teeth, as if he’s physically pained. 

“What?” George wants to hear him say it.

“Can you take over?” It’s funny to George, because Dream can do so many things, and he can do them all so well. And yet, he can’t do something as simple as make pancakes, even with a full recipe in front of him. “These pancakes look horrible already.”

“I’ll take over if you play something for me on your guitar while I cook,” George negotiates.

“I’m bad at it! I told you this already.”

Who cares, George wants to ask him. Who cares, when you’ll look so beautiful doing it? When you’ll put everything you have into it, just like you always do?

Alas, he does not ask any of these things.

“I don’t care, I want to hear you play it.”

“You’re a very curious person.”

“Yes,” George agrees, snatching the spatula from him, and booting the other man out of the way.

“More like prodding,” Dream says, and George snorts a laugh.

“Shut up,” he calls over his shoulder, as the other boy goes to grab the guitar from his room, where George knows it lays untouched in his closet. 

He returns just as quickly, and he settles himself on top of the counter- why can’t he ever just sit in a chair, like a normal person- the guitar resting against his lap. George observes fondly as he looks down at the strings, eyes searching for something in them as he contemplates what to play. 

George watches as his fingers lay elegantly upon the strings; his grip is gentle, like he’s afraid to handle the instrument too roughly. It’s a sort of lenience that the brunette has seen in the other many times before; not just in the way he approaches his piano or his guitar, but in the way that he looks at George, in his soft and comforting smiles.

“This is kind of difficult, I’ll probably mess up, but I used to practice it-”

“It’s okay,” George says, feigning disinterest as he flips a pancake over. “I just like to hear you play.”

With his back turned to the other, George misses the affectionate look that’s thrown his way. 

When the music comes, it’s soft and tentative; just like the first night in the apartment, where Dream had struck the piano keys so uncertainly. It’s _Here Comes the Sun_ by the Beatles, and the tempo fluctuates as the measures vary in difficulty, and he plays a few wrong chords, but George doesn’t care.

The laughs, giggles, and eventually, huffs of frustration that he makes when his fingers slip up, are so endlessly endearing to George. He’s so happy that this is happening, so happy that this is his roommate; so happy that he ended up here.

He especially does not care about the mistakes though, when Dream begins to sing softly. And of course, his singing voice is gorgeous; low, effortless, gravelly. Of course he can sing. Of course he can play the guitar. _Here comes the sun, do do do do, here comes the sun.._

Finishing the song, he taps George on the shoulder and then tilts his head, as if to ask, what did you think? The birthday boy smiles in response, a silent thank you.

  
“Could you keep singing for me until I finish?”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Dream sings a variety of Billy Joel songs, and the brunette sincerely wishes he would never stop. The sound of it settles inside him, warming his heart, making a home for itself in George’s head.

George turns around to face the other after a little while, a full batch of pancakes laying on a paper plate behind him.

“Your voice,” is all he says.

“What about it?” 

“You didn’t tell me you could sing.”

“Anybody can sing,” he says dismissively.

“Yes, but you can sing well. Your voice is beautiful.”

I think that every part of you is, George wants to say. 

But he does not, because he does not think those are the right words. No words can do this feeling, this longing, justice.

“I didn’t know that it was,” Dream says, honest.

“Now you do,” George looks at him and gives a small smile; no teeth, just a quirk of his lips. “Would you like a chocolate chip or a plain pancake?” 

“You already know which one I want.”

“I do. I don’t even know why I asked,” George says, plucking a chocolate chip pancake off the pile. He butters it for his roommate and then hands it to him on a plate with a fork and knife; Dream doesn’t like syrup on his chocolate chip pancakes. He thinks it’s too sweet, when they’re combined. 

“I’m taking you somewhere today. I think you’ll love it.” He sounds excited.

“When are we going?”

“Right after we eat.” 

“Okay,” George says. He’s excited, too. But he would never show it.

That same day, an hour later, George heaves himself out of the passenger seat. The first thing he notices is the sky; it’s so blue today, and the clouds are scarce. Yet the ones that plague the sky are puffy, and pure white, and George wishes to photograph the scene and then paint it.

His gaze falls next, upon the flowers.

There are _thousands_ of them. Too many flowers for anyone to count, intertwining with one another, tripping over each other’s stems, holding hands, crowded on the rolling hills. There are so many of them; blazing yellows, fiery reds, fluorescent oranges, deep and mysterious purples, the white flowers that compliment the few clouds in the sky. All of them, blanketed across the darkened, lively green grass that mimics the color of Dream’s eyes.

He’s speechless. It’s gorgeous. Unbelievably gorgeous.

“Do you like it?”

“Dream,” is all he says, and he can’t speak. His eyes are torn between the sea of flowers, and the man that stands next to him. 

“Yes?”

He grabs the other man’s hand, and echoes his thoughts softly; “I will never forget this.”

Dream’s smile is sunny. “Really?”

“Really. This is the best birthday gift I’ve ever received.”

You are the best gift I’ve ever received, is what he means to say. 

The blonde man looks at him, and George knows that he understands.

It’s late November, weeks later, and George is in the kitchen, making breakfast. It’s a quiet day and Dream is sleeping in; he’s been having trouble falling asleep at reasonable times, lately. His keyboard playing lasts throughout the early hours of the morning, as he practices the piece that he’ll be playing with the college orchestra.

  
  
George cannot tell if Dream is practicing because he actually wants to be good, or if he’s practicing because he cannot be alone with his thoughts and needs a distraction. It’s as if he does not know how to be silent.

It was peculiar, though. Last night was the first night where George had not heard Dream playing on his keyboard. He wonders why.

Speaking of the devil, the brunette thinks, as the musician drags himself around the corner and into the dining space. His eyebags are more pronounced, nowadays; they’re always there, and always deep. Existing below his waterline and frayed, long lower lashes.

The fabric of Dream’s grey t-shirt is pulled to the side, as if it’s been pulled on; it practically hangs off his muscular shoulder on one side. His sweatpants hang dangerously low, and George’s eyes traitorously wander to the trail of hair on his lower stomach.

“Good morning,” he says, voice gravelly and deep from sleep. 

“Morning,” George responds, leaning against the counter, facing his roommate. “You didn’t play last night. I missed it.”

“You did?”

“Of course.”

The blonde draws closer, asking what they’re going to eat for breakfast.

George barely hears this. He does not know what Dream said, really. And suddenly he does not care. 

Because there are hickeys, all over Dream’s skin. They’re faded slightly, but undeniably there, and they’re sucked into the skin on his neck, on his chest. Sunkissed skin disturbed by the lips of someone else, a person who George doesn’t know and doesn’t care to know. 

All around Dream’s gorgeous collarbones, the very skin that George has dreamed of kissing, and of touching, has been marked by someone else. 

His stomach is turning itself inside out with betrayal, with disgust, with confusion. 

George knows, he’s been quiet too long. And he knows, he’s staring. 

And the musician that looms over him is looking at him with genuine concern, as if he has no idea what’s wrong. His tousled blonde hair is frizzy, and George realizes that it’s been pulled on with someone else’s fingers. 

He was with someone else in his bed last night, holding someone else, kissing someone else, having his way with someone else. All while George sat alone in the room down the hallway, wondering why he was not playing music that was always beautiful enough to put him to sleep.

You traitor, George wants to say. How dare you, he wants to ask. He wants to shove him into the wall, to punch him, to slap him across the face and hear his hand collide with his skin with a _smack_ and he wants to watch the bruise surface on his cheek.

George wants to scream, I thought you wanted me, too. 

You said it wasn’t allowed, he thinks. Overnight guests, we said, are not allowed.

George’s heart had been buried for so long, beneath his own doubts and worries. For the past months, the man in front of him had been unearthing that clandestine, hidden part of him.

He thinks back to his parents, arguing in the kitchen in the low light. He remembers the times they had not yelled at each other, but calmly insulted each other with words that bit down harshly and drew blood. He refuses to be like them. 

He does not want to be like his mother, always initiating, always throwing the first verbal punch. And he does not want anyone to be like his father, who accepted it, who tried to calm her, and who failed every time; who would eventually surrender to the inevitable current of war, and join in the battle ruthlessly.

George’s stomach turns over, and he thinks he might be sick. Jealousy prickles at his skin.

And then, his mind goes blank, and he comes back to reality, refocusing.

“I’ll make you an egg,” George says quietly. “Just sit down.”

“George?” The man in question turns away, ripping the carton of eggs from the refrigerator. He slows himself down, and turns the stove on. He feels it warming up. It was just like his anger, brewing and growing hot inside of him. It’s flaring up. He can’t feel anything else. “Are you alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” George says, and his words are calm as he cracks an egg, watching it fall into the pan. When he speaks, it’s a little bit rushed, but he thinks he sounds close enough to normal. 

His hands are shaking with pent up frustration. He cracks the other.

“You don’t seem-”

“I am fine,” George cuts him off, and it comes out harsher than he meant. He can feel his throat closing, but he knows he will not cry. “It’s fine, I’m just tired, really.”

“I was thinking we could go to the beach tonight,” Dream says, as the eggs sizzle on the pan, casting light smoke into the air around them. “To see the sunset. If you’re not too tired.”

“Sure, Dream,” The brunette replies flatly, flipping one egg. It splatters a little, and he watches the white and fluffy liquidy substance smolder, shriveling and turning black on the surface of the oven. “Sounds good.” 

“Will you come hang out with me while I do my homework?” It’s so hopeful and genuine and stupidly childlike that it stings. Usually, George is the one to ask that question.

His roommate's apparent innocence is blinding. 

George stifles the urge to slam the spatula on the counter, throw his head back, and scream at the top of his lungs. He flips the other egg, and then plates them, and pushes it over to Dream, who’s looking at him expectantly. 

His hands are shaking violently, now, as he reaches to turn the oven off.

Before answering, George pulls out his phone onto the counter, and texts Karl, asking if he can call him soon, saying that it’s urgent.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Oh, what’s that?” Dream reaches for the phone before George can register what’s happening, tan fingers closing around the device, which is still unlocked. Distantly, the brunette knows that he _cannot_ see that text, because he’ll ask what’s wrong, what’s so urgent that he needed to call Karl about, and he won’t stop asking, and- George doesn’t want to flip out. He doesn’t want to argue. 

George rounds the counter and stands in front of Dream, who’s holding the phone high above his head, tauntingly. Neither of them are short- though the blonde loves to say that George is, when really, he himself is just ridiculously tall. 

The brunette can’t help but admire his lengthy limbs, even through his blind anger, confusion, and deep down- sadness. They’re elegant. Slender. He feels his face burn when the others’ t-shirt rides up and exposes his lower stomach yet again.

“Dream, give that back.” George refuses to touch him. He will not.

“Why should I?” 

“Because I’m asking you to.” 

“I don’t think so,” he says in a sing-song voice. “You’ll have to come get it.”

“Come on,” George reaches up onto his tippy toes, reaching, and he places one hand on the crook of the taller man’s shoulder for support. Their faces are too close. Dream calmly stops him with a hand to his slender chest, but he keeps reaching, even though he knows he’s losing. “Stop it, you’re- you’re hurting me.”

“I’m hurting you?” Dream repeats, the words dripping from his lips like smooth honey, so hot that it burns. His voice is so close.

“Just stop-” The brunette doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because Dream pushes him- not hard, but enough to cause him to stumble- and then he runs into the living room. Time slows as George sprints after him, watching him hunch over, clutching the phone to his chest and no, and he can’t read the text message-

George reaches his hands around Dream’s middle, reaching blindly for the phone, and he feels the metal on his fingers. But the taller snatches it away just as fast, and he holds it above his head yet again, leaving George hugging him from behind- he would never admit aloud how comfortable and warm the position is. He would never admit how much he loves that smell, of pine trees and summer and everything good.

“I had no idea you were so touchy,” Dream teases as the shorter boy removes his arms from his middle, as if he’s been burned. 

“I am not,” George says, and the words are almost a hiss. 

“You’re getting all riled up,” Dream observes, as the shorter reaches up, yet again for the phone. George, for the second time today, wants to punch him in his beautiful, smug face. 

“I am not.” 

“I like it. This is fun.” For some reason, the words make George flush, yet again. Why is that happening so much today?

“Not for me.”

“That sucks,” Dream tuts, holding the phone so high above his head, that it’s just impossible to reach. He’s infuriatingly smug.

“You’re cruel.” He means it, and he blindly shoves the taller man. Surprisingly, Dream stumbles and falls onto the couch and there’s a brief moment of weakness, George can see it, the phone is right there- 

And George unthinkingly jumps on top of him, and grabs it. Victory at last. 

And then, he makes the mistake- or perhaps, it’s quite the opposite- of looking down.

They lay horizontally on the couch. Dream is stretched out gorgeously below him; his shirt has ridden up, and the marks on his neck and chest are exposed completely. 

And the brunette has boxed him in, straddling him, with his legs laying on either side of the taller man’s torso. There is no escape for the other man.

George is frozen in his position; his right hand is on the arm of the couch, supporting his weight as he leans forward, and the other lays on the couch next to Dream’s head. Their faces are so close, and George can see all the colors in his eyes. The green that he knows so well, dull and piercing; a pale, sandy yellow that coats the space around his pupils, complimenting his hair. 

His lips are so pretty, pink and plump and swollen from whatever happened the night before. George can almost forget about that in this moment, with the beautiful boy laying still below him, frozen.

He can _almost_ forget.

George observes Dream further, and notices how his eyes are stuck on the brunette’s lips. One of his hands, broad and long fingered, rubs up his own pale back; the warmth seeps into his skin, and rushes back up to cheeks. He’s certainly blushing.

But right now, Dream is, too. For once, he is not the only one unaffected by what’s happening, George thinks. 

“I got my phone. I can get up now,” George says quietly, and he feels like his eyes are heavy. His head feels fuzzy with the closeness. 

“But I don’t want you to,” the man says from below him, and one hand comes up to the nape of George’s neck, his fingers spreading over the skin slowly. The brunette’s head lolls to the side, and he inhales shakily as chills rush up his spine at the small touch. He smells so good. “I don’t think you want to, either.”  
  


George shakes his head almost helplessly in a small movement as a hint of arousal pools in his lower stomach.

Dream props himself up on his elbows, raising a cocky eyebrow. He looks so good like that. Their faces are closer now, and George can count the freckles on his cheeks. 

He leans in closer still, and all George can see is Dream. He can see the blonde’s eyes close as his jaw inclines, angling himself, and he looks so pretty; face relaxed, lips parting, all for him. George’s lips are ghosting over his, and then-

And then the brunette pulls back, standing up. 

He’s satisfied. 

“George, what-” Dream begins, frozen on the couch. He’s breathing heavily, and his cheeks are pink.

“Nice hickeys,” George says, raising his eyebrows.

“What-”

“That was payback,” George continues, emboldened by the blush that’s still burning bright on the other’s cheeks. “Not allowed. Remember?” 

The blonde runs a hand through his hair in frustration, dropping his head onto the couch and sighing. 

He then turns his head to look at George and says softly, “I remember. I’m sorry.”

George walks away and rolls his slim shoulders. He feels less angry, now. That feeling is replaced by another, which runs just as rampantly, beating and alive inside him.

It’s November 24th, the day before Thanksgiving, when Dream asks why George isn’t going to see his family for the holiday.

And the British man thinks to himself, you have got to be kidding me.

“Dream.”

“What?”

“We don’t celebrate Thanksgiving in England. Why-” George knows it’s not that stupid of a question, but he can’t stop laughing nonetheless. Dream is 20 years old, and he doesn’t know that Thanksgiving is not celebrated in the U.K.

“Stop laughing at me! You know what, my question still stands. We’re on break, why aren’t you going to see them?” George knows he doesn’t mean to be prodding, he’s genuinely curious. 

“It’s complicated.” 

“Complicated?”

“Yes.”

“Is everything okay?” 

“Well, you know about my grandmother already. My family isn’t doing well with that, my mother’s very upset about it. Everyone wants space right now, I think.”

“Why don’t you go see your grandmother?”

“I will,” and what he doesn’t say is that he knows the next time he sees Nan will be the last, and that will tear him up inside. “But not yet.”

“Don’t wait too long,” Dream says, and his words are a weapon, and the implications of that sentence stab into George deeply.

“Please don’t say that.”

“I’m sorry,” Dream whispers, and he bites his lip with shame. His eyes are gleaming with pity, and the brunette hates it; he doesn’t want him to feel bad.

George wants to hug him and say that it’s okay, but he doesn’t know how, so he doesn’t.

Silence falls. 

Dream asks tentatively, “Do you want space right now?”

“I don’t know,” is all George can say. And he really doesn’t. He thinks he should want space, like the rest of his family, but for some reason, a part of him says no. “I... don’t know.”

“I’d like you to come meet my best friend tomorrow. Karl will be there, too. We do a Friendsgiving every year, we eat dessert together after dinner," and he sounds hopeful. 

“I don’t know if I should. I won’t be myself.” 

“I don’t want you to be alone, George.” 

“I don't know, Dream, I-" He doesn't want to be a burden.

“George.” Somehow, it's grounding, when Dream says his name like that; it's so different than how anyone else says it. It's affectionate, silky smooth.

“Yes?”

“I do not want you to be alone this holiday,” Dream says, and his voice is steely. It’s hard to argue with him, when he’s determined and stubborn like this. 

“Why?”

“Because you’re going to have a lot of time to think. Too much time. That’s not a good thing, when you’re dealing with loss,” he says, searching for his words carefully, knowing the harm that they can do.

“My grandmother isn’t gone yet.”

And Dream’s conflicted look says, _but you know she’s going to be, soon._

“Please, come with me. They’ll help take your mind off it, maybe cheer you up a bit.” 

And George finally says, with slight reluctance, “Okay.”

Because maybe his heart feels heavy, and maybe he feels a little numb. But he knows Dream will be there for him, and that helps him a little bit. It always does. 

And a day later, they’re knocking on the door of Karl’s apartment, standing side by side. George wants to hold Dream’s hand, but he’s not sure how he’ll react, so he does not. 

Karl’s door flings open, and instantly, there’s familiar, warm arms wrapped around his shoulders. Him and his stupid, soft, ugly sweaters, George thinks, and yet his heart still feels so full.

Dream was right. He already feels a little better, just seeing his friend. Karl and his warm smile, his soft and gleeful eyes, his comforting demeanor.

“Gogmeister, how I missed you so!” Karl pipes, hugging him so tight that he feels like he can’t breathe. 

Dream snorts from beside him and starts wheezing like a kettle; a sound that will be etched into George’s memory until the end.

“Yeah, yeah, Karl. I’ve missed you too.”

“And hello, Dream,” Karl says, pulling back and giving him the salute.

Dream smiles in greeting as Karl opens the door for them to step inside. The apartment is achingly familiar, and instantly, George remembers all of the good times attached to it; playing video games, screaming at each other, watching scary movies; he remembers all the stupid inside jokes, and above all, the hiccuping, infectious sound of Karl’s laugh.

There’s someone unfamiliar standing in the kitchen, who George assumes is Dream’s best friend. He’s certainly a little bit younger than them, and he shares the same childlike essence as his roommate. The man’s features are soft on the edges, not unlike his own, and he seems to be very approachable, open with his demeanor. George notes the stubble growing on his chin, and his big, brown eyes. 

Karl and Dream are wrapped up in a new conversation, so George gravitates into the other room, towards the newcomer.

“So you’re the roommate, huh?” the stranger asks, smiling kindly.

“That’s me.” 

He huffs and shifts his weight, leaning onto the counter and looking up at the raven haired boy, almost calculating. “You’re not Dream’s usual type.” 

George can’t help but laugh. “Is that so?”

“Yeah,” he says casually, and holds out a hand. “I’m Sapnap.”

George takes it and shakes, telling his name. Sapnap’s skin is cold. “What is it with the weird nicknames?”

“I don’t know, ask Dream. He gave it to me.” 

They look at each other, studying each other silently. George circles back to an earlier point of conversation. “It doesn’t matter if I’m his type, anyways. We’re just roommates.” 

“Cut the crap. Are you two fucking or what?” Sapnap asks in a deadpan tone, and he casually dips one of his chips in salsa, tossing it into his mouth carelessly. George's face takes on a deep red tint immediately.

George raises an eyebrow and leans closer. He takes a minute to register what just happened, and eats a chip as well, sputtering. “That salsa is so spicy, what the hell?”

“No, your taste buds are just weak. You also didn’t answer my question, George. How interesting.” 

“No, we are not. We are not-” He can’t say it.

Sapnap is blunt in a different way, but his words are careless and seem to spill from his mouth in the same way that Dream’s do. George cannot imagine the interesting conversations the two have had. 

“You’re not fucking?” Sapnap finishes for him, and puts a ridiculous amount of salsa on his next chip. He is very smug and very, _very_ amused.

“Yes, that’s what I meant to say. Thank you.” George says, but he’s not really thankful. 

“Hey, Sap. What’s going on, what did I miss?” Dream asks, laying one large hand on George’s back and crowding into his space as he grabs a chip himself, seemingly unaware of what he’s doing. “Were you torturing him?”

George, on the other hand, is almost too aware, and he knows he’s blushing. The warmth of Dream pressing against his back is too much.

Not to mention, Sapnap looks so thrilled that it’s horrifying. And Karl is just sitting on the couch, where him and George had sat for so many days before, looking between them with a cocked eyebrow and pursed lips. 

“Of course.”

“Sorry about that, George,” Dream says. “He’s a little bit much sometimes.”

To which the pale man mumbles, “Those aren’t quite the words I would use,” and the blonde snorts into a laugh. 

“Don’t act like you haven’t thought about it, George,” Sapnap teases, winking at him. “I saw you blushing.”

George is going to melt into the floor. 

“What is going o-” Dream begins.

“The apple crisp should be ready soon,” Sapnap interrupts, and does his mouth ever stop moving? “Have you ever had it, George?”

“No, I don’t think so.” 

“That’s a shame, because mine is kind of fucking terrible. Everywhere else, though, apple crisp is the shit. Don’t let this ruin your opinion on apple crisp, okay?”

“Okay,” George says slowly, and he doesn’t know why, but he can’t stop laughing. This is such a mess, he thinks. It’s endlessly entertaining.

“It really is terrible,” Dream muses, mostly to himself.

“Shut up,” Sapnap pipes, sticking out his tongue. 

“Yeah, Dream. You can’t even make pancakes,” George says, looking up at him. His eyes narrow in betrayal in response.

“He can’t make pancakes?” Sapnap asks, mouth dropping open.

“I was surprised when he couldn’t make them from scratch, considering that he was using the simplest recipe out there. But I kind of understood it, you know?” The younger man nods, and he’s laughing quietly. “But then, he tried to make them with the pancake mix where you just add water, and don’t ask me how, but he messed that up as well.” 

George doesn’t know why he’s talking so much, he thinks to himself. Maybe, it’s because he loves talking about Dream. Everything he does is endlessly endearing.

“I’m being teamed up on right now. By my roommate and my best friend.” The blonde is incredulous, and he slots himself into the space next to George, standing shoulder to shoulder now.

“You put yourself in that position, sir,” Karl pipes from the other room, and he’s shoveling buttery popcorn into his mouth.

This will be interesting, George thinks to himself.

And it certainly was interesting. In ways both good and bad. The night was long and winding.

Admittedly, George had not laughed so much in ages.

Admittedly, it was the most fun George had in a while.

He had Dream to thank for that.

**_December_ **

George sits at his grandmother’s bedside, across the ocean from Dream. Britain is not his home anymore, but a piece of his heart will be here always, as long as she is here.

Her hands look so frail, so small, in the harsh hospital lights. Her skin has paled, scarily so; she looks fragile, hauntingly breakable. He takes a moment, to take in the color of her eyes that he knows so well, her petite lips; the sparse freckles on her face. He hopes that her face will be etched into his memory, until the end.

“Hello, Gran,” he says.

  
  
“Your accent,” she replies. “You sound different.”

“Is it bad?”

“No,” she responds, tilting her head against her pillow. “Just different. You look different, too. You have grown into yourself so nicely.”

“My limbs are not as awkward looking as they used to be, is what you mean.”

She tries to laugh, but coughs hoarsely with a smile instead. “Yes.”

“How are you feeling?” 

“I feel about as well as I look," she says, resigned.

He holds her hand. “You are always beautiful to me.”

She gives him a half smile, squeezing his hand so tight and shaking it. “And you are just as sweet as I remember.”

A silence falls, and they merely observe each other. She is studying his matured features, and he is studying the new way that she struggles with breathing, the new lines on her face, the way that her eyelids are heavy with the perpetual desire to sleep.

“But really. How are you feeling?”

She knows what he is asking, now.

“I’m ready to go,” she says, and it crushes him, but he is also glad. “I lived my life with no regrets. I loved many, and was loved by many.”

“You still are,” he says. “You always will be. I’ll tell stories about you until I can’t speak anymore. I’ll write about you until my hands are too frail for me to do so.” 

“This is why you’re my favorite,” she utters with a smile. “My love. I do not care to talk about myself. I want to know about you, now.”

“College is good. I’m learning so much.” 

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“And.. I have a new roommate,” he tells her, as he fills her in on his new life in the States. 

At his new tone of voice, she raises an eyebrow.

“Do you like him?” If only she knew.

“Very much,” he says. “Unfortunately.”

“In what way?” she asks. 

“What do you mean?”

“That look in your eyes,” she says, and reaches up to stroke his cheek gently. “I know that look.”

He takes her hand gently in his own, presses a lenient kiss into her skin.

“He is wonderful,” he admits, like a prayer, and it feels so nice to say it out loud. 

“How did you meet him?”

“In a little restaurant, in the middle of town,” he says, and he wishes he could stop the smile that forms on his face. “He was sitting at his piano.”

“A musician, eh?” she asks, and she looks amused. 

“Yes,” he says. 

“Will you tell me about him?” she asks, and she closes her eyes. She looks tired.

“Certainly,” he says. “He has blonde hair that glows in the sun; his eyes are green. A darker color.” 

She squeezes his hand, a silent way of his grandmother saying, I am listening.

“The way he talks is very informal, yet his writing is brilliant. It’s like nothing I’ve ever read, it’s so unique to him.” 

“A writer, too?” she peers at him, with her icy blue eyes that strike him deep.

“There is nothing he cannot do,” he replies, and he has never felt so confident.

“Continue,” she says, nodding and closing her eyes again.

“He brought me to a field of flowers for my birthday. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” George whispers to her, and it’s true. “I’m not sure what was better, though- the flowers, or the smile on his face when I told him how much it meant to me.” 

Another dull squeeze. Her lips quirk up slightly, and he thinks that it’s the beginning of a grin.

“He feels other people’s emotions as if they are his own.”

She opens her eyes for a moment and looks at him with a soft, nurturing gaze. His words seem to please her. Squeezes his hand. 

“I fall asleep to the sound of him playing piano every day.” She smiles fully at this; it’s shaky, but it’s there. “I can’t sleep without it anymore.” 

She nods.

“I love the way he says my name. I love to listen to him sing, or talk.” 

Silence. Her fingers stroke the back of his hand, so gentle that the touch feels ghostlike. 

“I cook for him, because he can’t do it himself. It’s pitiful, how bad he is at cooking. Don’t know how he survived without me. He must’ve eaten a lot of ramen, huh?” 

Have her fingers always been this cold? They feel as icy as the color of her eyes, he thinks.

“When I’m without him, I get this strange feeling. Like a tug. It’s quiet, but it’s there. It’s like a gravitational pull.”

It’s so quiet, and her breathing is so loud. It sounds like she struggles with every inhale and exhale.

“I know that feeling,” she murmurs. The recognition makes him smile. “I have never heard you talk this much.”

“I know,” he whispers. “What does it mean?”

“It’s like he has unopened you from the inside,” she observes, and her voice is so raspy. “And now everything you kept inside you is spilling out.”

“It is.” 

“I was scared for you,” she says. He does not understand why, so he asks.

“Why?”

“With the way your parents were, I always thought that you would be too afraid to.. Give yourself over to someone. To love.”

“I was, before he showed up. I didn’t mean for this to happen," he admits. Though, he guesses that he was doomed from the start.

“And yet, here you are.”

“Here I am,” he agrees. “It’s so strange. I keep thinking about all the decisions I made, that led me to him. What if I had decided to dorm again this year?”

“You did not,” she interrupts.

“I know. Only because I had the weirdest intuition not to go back to living there.” 

She narrows her eyes. “You have never been one to listen to your intuitions before.”

“No, I never have been. I usually listen to my head.” 

“But you listened to your heart, that time.” She knows him better than anyone.

“Yes.”

“Perhaps that little tug that you feel inside you, is fate.” 

He looks up at her.

“Do you think so?”

“I know so,” she smiles. “And do not worry. If he treats you badly, I’ll haunt that cretin from my grave.”

And despite himself, George laughs. 

Gran falls asleep soon after, and George watches her chest as it heaves with every breath. Watches her eyelashes flutter.

He feels his eyes burning, and pushes the feeling away.

  
  
  


Two days later, he is back in the States, knocking on the apartment door. 

Dream opens up, and George hugs him immediately. It’s the first time they’ve really embraced. His arms are hooked around the taller man’s neck, and he’s up on the tips of his toes, practically falling into the other man’s space.

He thinks they fit together perfectly.

“Hello, George,” he greets, and he presses his lips to the pale skin of the brunette’s neck. “How was it, how are you?”

“I love her so much,” is all he can say, his voice is small. “I’m going to miss her.”

Dream squeezes onto him a little tighter, as if to protect him from his own sadness. The heat radiating from him is intoxicating, and so welcome. “I will be here for you, always.”

“I know you will.”

“You look exhausted,” the taller says, tilting his head.

“I couldn’t sleep over there. I don’t know why,” George slurs, and rubs his eyes. “That, combined with the jet lag.. I feel like a zombie.”

“That’s concerning.” 

“I- no. I know why I couldn’t sleep. It was too quiet.” George doesn’t want to say it, so he can only hope that the other man will understand. It feels too honest to say aloud.

“Too quiet?”

“You weren’t there.” The brunette’s face heats up.

The dots connect, and Dream just smiles. He places his hands on George’s sides.

“You couldn't sleep without me playing. That’s sweet.”

“It is. But my sleep deprived body doesn’t think so.”

“Go take a nap, I’ll order food.”

“Thank you,” George sighs, and he beelines to the bedroom that is not his own. 

Dream doesn’t question it. He does not care to mention it. 

What belongs to him belongs to George, as well. They are one in the same.

This rings especially true, not even a week later.

George is doing laundry. It’s early in the morning; he doesn’t know why he can’t go back to sleep, but it’s 7 am and he is already painfully awake. He’s folding his clothes, one by one quickly, and without thinking, he slips on the first hoodie that he sees. 

He faintly registers just how big it is, but doesn’t really think anything of it. All he knows is that it’s so warm, like it’s hugging him all over, and he finds that he is immediately tired again. It's so comfortable.

Suddenly, he wants to go back to sleep.

He stumbles back to his bedroom, practically trips into his bed, and does exactly that. 

George wakes up again around 9:00, extremely comfortable in his fluffy blankets, and the sun is streaming in through his window. 

The air is cool in the apartment this morning, and he knows distantly that the person he cares the deepest for is waiting for him, a couple steps down the hall and to the left. In the kitchen he’s waiting, legitimately incapable of making anything remotely decent for breakfast. 

George could bask in the feeling forever, but he cannot resist the tug he feels immediately upon waking, to be by the blonde man’s side. 

  
He swings his feet over the side of his bed, shuffling down the hallway and rubbing his tired eyes with his sleeve. George’s hair looks ridiculous, and how is his bed head so horrible when he doesn’t even move around that much in his sleep? He wonders.

“Morning,” George slurs, as he’s done so many times before. He sounds so posh when he says it, in comparison to Dream.

“Well, hello there,” Dream says, and he looks extremely pleased with the sight before him. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” 

“I know, I look rough,” George responds, laughing lightly and running a finger through his hair.

“I don’t think so,” the blonde says, moving closer. There’s a possessive gleam in his eyes. 

They’re nearly pressed against each other, now; George is looking up at a steep incline, to meet the others’ eyes.

“What are you-- Yes, I do.” 

“I like your hoodie, George,” he says slowly, his voice an amused, gentle rumble. 

The shorter man looks down, and realizes what exactly the other is referring to. 

He’s wearing Dream’s hoodie. And to say that it’s huge is an understatement; it swallows him, coming to an end at his lower thighs. 

His lower stomach stirs with interest, at the way that Dream is looking at him. It’s too early for this. 

“I did not mean for this to happen, I just picked up the first one I saw-”

“You don’t have to explain,” Dream interrupts. His crooked smile is almost predatory, and George can see a few of his teeth, a sharp canine peaking through. “Keep it. It looks good on you.”

George’s face is burning. He wants the floor to swallow him up. He feels so small. 

“Okay,” the raven haired boy responds, and he feels dizzy. 

**_January_ **

“Why did you sleep with someone else?” George asks one day, and they’re laying on the beach watching the sunset, as they’ve done for so many nights and mornings since the prior August.

It’s been a recurring question that surfaces in his mind and pricks at his skin.

“I thought you didn’t want me.”

George lays on his stomach, facing away from the ocean; the other man lays on his back, facing the calm water and the sky.

“And that is your excuse?” George asks.  
  


“Not my excuse. But it’s my try at an explanation.”

“It’s not enough.”

A silence. 

“I did not think it was possible for you to want me,” Dream says, and as with everything else that leaves his lips- it is achingly honest. 

George decides to match his candor, for once, as he says,

“I thought it impossible not to.” 

Another heavy silence settles between them. The brunette picks at rocks in the sand with pursed lips, unaware of how the other is looking at him intensely, gaze so intense that it could scorch anything in its wake. 

“I had no idea.” 

“I thought I was being obvious.”

“You are many things. Obvious is never one of them.” The taller says, laying in the sand, propped up on his elbows and admiring the setting sun. 

The sky is beautiful today.

“Even when I blush?”

“Besides when you blush.” Dream grins at the memories. “You are obvious with your feelings only then. But I love when that happens.” 

“Yeah, I’m sure you d-” George turns his head slightly to look at the musician.

George is cut off by tentative lips on his, a hand on his jaw. He freezes for a second with surprise. 

The blonde boy pulls back for a second with hesitation, and George chases him, reeling him back in by the collar of his shirt.

And suddenly he’s falling, and he loves the feeling, he cannot get enough of it. He doesn’t even want to stop to breathe. 

They’ve never been this close, though their hearts have always been. 

It is so wonderful to have this at last. 

The sunkissed boy’s lips are on his, and he feels as though he is flying, soaring, with wings he had thought to be broken. Dream tastes just like he thought he would; sweet, and refreshing, and somehow just like the sunshine that greets him when he opens his eyes in the morning.

It is perfect. Everything is perfect. Dream, with his bluntness, confidence, crooked smile, wise words, and golden heart- is perfect.

But, things fall apart.

Gran passes away the very next week.

Somehow George knows, before he even gets the phone call. 

He feels strange all day, and Dream asks him what’s wrong, and he can’t explain himself.

They’re eating dinner in the living room, when George’s phone rings. He does not need to look, he does not need to check who it is; but he does, anyways.

He sees that it is his mother, and his blood runs cold. He knows what this means.

George does not pick up the phone. 

They sit in silence, as it rings.

Tears prick at his vision, and Dream’s arms are around him before he can say anything.

Maybe he’s sobbing. He doesn’t know.

All he remembers about that day is that the smell of pine trees and fresh air and the sound of a deep rumbling voice consoled him, as a piece of his heart chipped away and buried itself in the ground.

He is not the same for weeks. Some days, he doesn’t want to leave his bed. 

Dream is there for all of it, beside him, and he never stops looking at George with that fondness and admiration. Though, in the month of January, it is oftenly tainted with sadness.

  
  


**_February_ **

George still feels a little empty, but he’s getting better.

And on Valentine’s Day, George wakes up to a bouquet of roses on his bed beside him. And he smiles to himself, despite everything. 

Beside the flowers, is a note:

_I have a concert, today. Come to the hall at 12:00._

_Every single note I play is for you._

_Remember that._

An hour later, George takes his seat in the large concert hall which is breathtakingly beautiful; the chandelier is golden and glamorous, and the seats are velvet red.

The curtain draws open and immediately, George’s eyes fall upon a sandy lion’s mane, colored brighter than a flame. There’s a stray golden curl at Dream’s hairline that lifts up at its end and glows in the dim stage lights. His angular jaw, all sharp angles and cutting edges; contrastingly, his nose is a soft slope that one’s eyes would naturally slip down, falling and landing gracefully on his lips. The shape of his cupid’s bow rises and falls like mountains in the distance. 

He sits at the piano alone, in the middle of the stage, facing away from the audience, surrounded by a murmuring sea that is the orchestra. He demands attention.

The boy turns around for a moment, and there are those beautiful dark evergreen eyes, adorned by a pale muddy brown halo around his pupils. _So expressive._

They’re the true gateway to his open mind and his achingly trusting, golden heart; George has seen every emotion inside them. Vivacious joy, sadness so heavy that they glaze with tears, anger so hot that those eyes could scorch anything they lay upon; and lastly, desire. That gleam of desire, of playfulness, that makes his brain fog up like mirrors after a shower so burning hot it leaves his skin pink.

The essence of summer is inside this boy, visibly beating and pulsing beneath his tuxedo, alive under the tight skin of his forearms. 

His smile- crooked and imperfect teeth be damned- would leave anyone weak in the knees.

He is reminded that the golden boy smells like pine trees, and comfortable rainy days, and the ocean, all at once. A sickeningly sweet scent that’s so terrifyingly familiar to George.

Dream begins to play.

Nimble fingers, long and gentle and graceful, like spider legs. Fingers crafted laced with dexterity by the skillful hand of a greater power to elicit sweet sounds from the instrument he sits before. Those very fingers have been crafted to move across the keys and leave one mesmerized.

The piano keys may appear a drab black and white to the human eye, deceivingly simple. But when he is added to the equation, they spark a technicolor whirl, a kaleidoscope of sound so heartstopping and so beautiful that dances through the humid air of the concert hall.

There’s an increasingly familiar feeling swelling in George’s chest. He lets the emotions flare and wash over him; he knows now that it is pride. But also fondness, and affection, and a natural want so deep that it leaves him breathless. 

It hits George all at once, and he finds himself wanting to run away from himself and from his heart, run so far that it aches, so fast that he can never catch his breath. 

But alas, he is too entranced to leave. 

He is glued to his seat, enamored by the other boy’s mere existence in such an immeasurable and strong force that this time, he cannot run.

Everyone in the crowd around George is silent, their eyes trained with wonder and awe on the boy who plays the piano so sweetly and with such care. All eyes on the humble, beautiful boy who is summer itself. 

Dream had once said that it was going to be his mission, to show George something worth staying for. George wonders if he had already known when he spoke those words, that the one thing that would truly make him stay, was the golden boy himself.

George is breathless, and he’s unconsciously leaning forward, drawn in by every note, every sound, every pitch.

Within the spaces between the notes, George hears his affections whispered back to him.

He is the world to me, George thinks. He is the sun.

At this moment, _he is everything_. 

To George, he always will be.

**Author's Note:**

> uhhhh yeah i hope you liked it i'll be surprised if anyone reads this tbh but we'll see
> 
> edit: hey folks just made a twitter @etrintwt


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